Solace
by That-Fresh-Rain-Smell
Summary: Two journals, two people, one world. Harry keeps a journal.Kate inspired this, and I do admit I've wanted to do a snarry diary thingy for a while now. noncon, abuse, angst, my usual.
1. Part One

Title: Solace

Author: That-Fresh-Rain-Smell

Pairing: Snape/Harry

Summary: Two diaries. Two people. A world.

A/N: So, Kate inspired this one, again. –G-. I love her . so, of course, this is dedicated to her. Love you all!

-Kozi

* * *

_Solace_

_Part One_

_5:30am Day is questionable_

_So, Dumbledore gave me this for Christmas. I can't help but be reminded of Voldemort's Horcrux diary that Ginny got possessed by. Ah well, I would hope that Dumbledore doesn't have Horcruxes. That would complicate things._

_Why he gave me this, though, I don't know. Sure, I've grown away from my friends, become quieter, more controlled, actually. Hermione is still a good friend—we talk about books and spells and academic things, but Ron is not a friend at all, anymore. I don't talk. I don't eat, I don't even think much._

_I mean, I study. I study extensively. I broaden my vocabulary by reading muggle books, and attempting to translate Latin, and I have read nearly all the books in the Hogwarts library. Even the restricted section. I've begun to visit Knockturn alley every now and then, to buy a new 'prohibited book', or get my hands on the more rare ingredients for my potions. _

_Without Snape yelling at me, I've found I quite like potions and I do an adequate job. I doubt that Sirius would be very pleased to find me using his old hideout to brew potions and study, rather than…well, whatever he would have used it for, but I think I like it; my own quiet place to just…get away._

_When he died, he left me this old house on Meserbrooke road. It was dumpy, like it hadn't been used for a while, but I was able to clean and fix it up during the Christmas holidays of last year, and now it serves as my home. It's a bit odd, for me to have a home, since I'm still in school, and I've still got to stay with the Dursleys. In my house, I've a potions lab, a library, my room, and the kitchen and bathroom. There is a study, and while it's clean, I hardly ever use it, so I'm afraid it's gone a bit dusty._

_It is my sixth year at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. I figured I should mention that. Sirius died at the end of my fifth year, when Voldemort revealed himself, so everyone finally believed he was back (Though he had been back since the end of fourth year). _

_Anyway, I will not be attending my Seventh Year, as the twins, and I will be staying in my house on Meserbrooke until it's time for me to die trying to kill Voldemort, of until I kill him. I've no real need for seventh year, for I've mastered all seven years curriculums already. I'm only going for sixth year so I don't have to stay here until I come of age. _

_Once I do come of age, I'll be out, and on my own. I've money enough; form my parents and Sirius, and a home. I will do whatever I can to kill Voldemort, but I won't be dragged this way and that like a puppet on strings by Dumbledore. _

_Soon, I will be free. Didn't some famous person say those words once? Well, besides me, I mean. Gah, I hate all the fame. Drives me batty. One good thing about the house on Meserbrooke, besides all the other good things, is that it's unplottable, and about as hard to find as Number twelve, Grimdulan place. _

_Perhaps then I'll finally get to relax, away from the world for a year before it's time to die, or whatever. Maybe then I'll be free of all the rumors and talk and questions. Always questions. Endless questions. What would they do if they actually knew anything of value about me? What would they do, recoil in horror? I'd think so._

_I cannot write much more; it is almost dawn, and aunt petunia will be by to unlock my door and make sure I begin breakfast before she leaves._

_She's been spending almost all her time away from home now. I almost wish she'd stay…not because I've any attachment to her, far from it. But more or less—_

_12am Day is still unknown_

_Sorry about that. Not sure why I'd be apologizing to a book, but I am. Guess I've truly lost it. Oh well, didn't really know I had it, so I guess I can't miss it._

_Petunia came by just at that moment, so I had to stop and hide my things before she saw I had them; they like to entertain the idea that I am truly bored in my cupboard. _

_Anyway, I rather wish she'd stay home more because then Vernon wouldn't come after me so much. Dudley is rarely here as well, but when he is, he is just as bad, or perhaps worse, than his father. _

_So today I cleaned the three bathrooms, Dudley's toy room, Dudley's room, Aunt and Uncle Dursley's room, the kitchen, living room, and front hall. I also gardened, meaning I had to trim the grass (with scissors since petunia misplaced the actual lawnmower) trim the hedges, water everything, and pull weeds and all of that. It's actually not too bad. I've a little plot of space in the garden where I grow herbs. _

_The space is beneath a hedge brush, where I have hollowed out a slight indent, and the herbs I grow are all ones that don't need much light, but I am pleased all the same. I also identified a few wild herbs today, and was sad to have to remove them. I tried to keep the ripe ones, but Vernon caught me and made sure I did not try that again. _

_I should apologize, I suppose, for the bloodstains on the paper. Vernon realized that knives are sharp today and I was his experiment. Then I was not allowed to clean up, because Petunia wasn't home, so she couldn't witness it, and I was sent to my cupboard before I could get the chance to sneak to the bathroom. _

_I suppose, since this book is secret, and only I can read it, (I've now placed multiple locking and safety charms on it. The ministry cannot track wandless magic. That must be why they insist on using wands. A control issue, again) it would be okay to tell._

_I have cuts allover me. Some are from myself, while others are from Vernon, though not Dudley. I've many bruises, and sustain many injuries. I am not fed, obviously, but I'm not quite sure if I would feed myself, given the chance. I feed myself at school because I'm expected to, but I've been wondering what I will allow myself to become when I have defeated Voldemort. If I defeat Voldemort._

_The first time it happened, I was thirteen. Vernon opened up my cupboard and dragged me out. The house was silent, and no one was home. He dragged me upstairs, to his room. His and Aunt Petunias. He gagged me, so I couldn't scream. And at the time, I did not know wandless magic, so I could not stop it. My hands were tied together, though my feet were not. My feet and legs had to be spread, for what he did to me. _

_What is kind of ironic is; I don't care anymore. At one point, I thought I was wrong, thought I was _abnormal_ or a freak. I've always known that I fancied men, and when Vernon began his nightly habits, I began to wonder how sick I really was. _

_Then, after Sirius died, I felt I deserved it. I still feel that I deserve everything. Every cruel word from the Dursleys, from Snape. Every harsh or violent act. Every 'misdeed' is a punishment, and I take it without protest, because they're right. They're always right. _

_I suppose I still feel that way. I hate myself every time I use the house on Meserbrooke road, as if somehow I'm not worth the time I take up being there. But I can't help go there. It—and, I've found; this journal—is my only solace from my mind, or from others. I can't—won't—no matter how selfish it is, give up this one thing that I enjoy. _

_And I hate myself for it._

_What I'm feeling isn't normal either, and I loathe myself more. But that's just the problem! I can imagine Snape saying 'circles within circles' because it seems like the saying would do well with his voice, mostly. Like maybe it's something he'd say. _

_Well, I think I'll check in now. Good writing to you, journal._

_12am the next day_

_Petunia took Dudley out to a play today, leaving Vernon to 'watch' me. He did more than watch, I assure you. If I were walking, I'd still be limping. He has done this without preparation, or protection of any kind before, but it was never so…brutal, violent. Though the past times, I still limped days afterwards. _

_He…he carved my skin, with his knife. I...I don't know what it says, I can't see it—for it's on my back—but I could _feel_ the letters and he was laughing, and saying…saying things. He does talk to me when he does this. Usually insults or…I will force myself to write this…_

_Or things like 'you like that? Of course you do, you sick fuck' or dirty fuck. Or useless fag. They all run together in my mind now. I don't want to think abut it, I want to block it out, but with some form of subconscious, perverse fascination, they run through my head on an endless loop anyway._

_He noticed my other scars, too. For the first time. The one's I inflicted upon myself? And he gleefully reopened all of them. All fifty-six of them. I counted as he did it; I hadn't known the number before._

_The ones on my arms, my collarbone, my stomach, my ankles. All of them. I did not cry. Perhaps I am beyond tears now. And, odd as it is, that thought makes me terribly sad. As if, if I've nothing left to cry, is there anything left at all?_

_I did bite my lip, and tonight, in the safety of my room, I cry crimson tears through the only outlet I know now. Sixty-three of them, now. I'll probably always remember the number from now on. Who could forget? If I could, would I want to?_

_How long until I return to Hogwarts? How many minutes? Hours? Days? Will it be enough?_

_I will sleep now._

_Again, excuse the blood on the paper. These at least, were my own making, this time._

Thirty-Seven days, 8,880 hours, 521,700 seconds.

_I am puzzled by that last entries appearance. I have no remembrance of writing it, and there it stands. Not in my handwriting, either. In slanted, small script. Spiky and somehow familiar. I will not contemplate it. Perhaps if you ask direct questions, the journal will answer them/ as, perhaps, a spell? They would have to be simple questions, and not too precise, because it cannot know everything about everyone. If I were to say_

_Whose side is Severus Snape on?_

_There is no possible way that the journal could answer that, though perhaps it would anyway, and—_

His Own.

_Well; 'his own'._

_Is that an answer to the question; 'whose side is Severus Snape on?'_

Yes

_Will you answer direct questions, or answer anything?_

It depends

_Good to know then. My theory was tested, and well proven. I do hope that this is only an enchanted journal, however, because it is starting to remind me vaguely of a Horcrux, and I feel the need to dispose of it. However, I will not. I like it too much. If anyone ever knew…the-boy-who-won't-fucking-die: Keeps a Journal! There would be copies of it everywhere, no matter how they got a hold of it. I hope my secret is safe…_

_Is my secret safe?_

Which Secret?

_All of the ones that have been revealed within this journal._

That depends.

_Depends on what?_

On whether you would like them to be kept a secret.

_Is a secret not a secret without the proper title and request?_

A secret is merely the thoughts the holder does not want publicized. Do you wish me to keep your secret?

_Yes, please. Do you have a name? Or should I continue to call you journal?_

I've no name, to you. It is your choice whether to name your journal, but I shall remain nameless.

_Hang about. Does that mean that you are a real live, breathing, walking talking person?! And that you have somehow read this?_

You are correct.

_**X.x.x.x.x Three days past x.x.x.x.X**_

_I will hold you to your word; that you will not tell, then. I do not have to make threats about what will happen if you do. I will simply retaliate, simple as that._

Understood.

_So how does this work, anyway?_

The journals come in pairs. They are usually sold to a fair amount of lovers who are traveling separate, so that they may stay in better contact. However I believe that in this particular case, The Headmaster was being conning and clever as always and thus gave you the journal, without informing you of its properties. He then gave me the other journal, perhaps in hope that we would become friends. I daresay his plan has failed. All this is, is your pathetic ramblings and woes, and my less-than frequent, short-answer responses.

_You sound…you sound like Snape._

Indeed

_I will continue as I have. I will ignore you unless your response is of any merit whatsoever, and continue as if it was a regular journal._

I have not much care as to what you do.

_I did not believe for a moment that you did._

_Anyway, it is now the day after the day after the day after the day that Vernon and I were left alone, and it is one am. An hour has past since I began, actually. _

_Petunia is taking me to one of my rare doctor appointments tomorrow, and Dudley is in summer school, now. I suppose he was too stupid, but his parents would not tolerate him being held back. At least I will not have to deal with _him_ anymore. He was almost as bad as his father. One of the two is bad, but both of them are much worse._

_I think I'll turn in. goodnight._

_12am the next day after that_

_I don't feel, godamn it! I loathe this apathy, and I wish strongly for even a great bought of depression to wake some form of emotion in me!_

_Gods I can't _do_ this!!!!!_

_Provoke me, anger me, I dare you! _

_Try and get some reaction from me, I beg you!_

_Seize me, kill me, cause me pain!_

_All of that would be my gain._

_Love and happiness are by far not within reach_

_But pain and hate I could easily manage._

_I would even take a round with Vernon_

_To quell the emptiness_

_To feel my own anger, my anguish_

_My distress_

_The hate, the rage,_

_Impassioned new!_

_I wish I could feel something, anything._

_So I'm brought to this again._

_And again._

_Over, and over._

_Seventy two_

_Quite a lot_

_Not enough_

_Never enough_

_I _want_ him to come for me_

_And that's what makes me so sick_

_So sick of myself,_

_So sick of this_

_I _want_ it, I do!_

_What is _wrong_ with me,_

_That I yearn for such grief?_

_Everything_

_And nothing_

_Both at once_

_A masochist through and through_

_As I have come to realize._

_Dark is what I have become_

_I could easily succumb_

_To Voldemort, to He,_

_Everything,_

_Ever pain_

_Is all within reach_

_I could allow my mind_

_To fall darker, to fall deep_

_And allow myself the pleasure within the feelings_

_Of the sorrow_

_And that I would keep._

_I'm not sure where that came from. Again, excuse the blood. Dreadfully sorry. I think I'll try and sleep now. _

The poem was quite expressive.

_12am the next night._

_If you could here me, you would hear my bark of laughter. That is all you say to such emotional venting? Perhaps not emotional…apathetic-venting? I laugh. You remind me…_

_Ahem. _

_Talk to me. Help my mind from the recent events (Vernon again) and lift me up into a terribly interesting discussion on Occlumency, or wandless magic, or heck, even elf-rights. Just begin a conversation that I can add to, that I can rant about, that I could discuss at length, with the right person. _

_In thirty days, I will be free, and I will move to my house on Meserbrooke road, and I will _live_ there, with as much life I have left. _

_Talk, damnit!_

_Will you talk!?_


	2. Part Two

_Part Two_

I apologize; I was not nearby when you make the entry. I will attempt to be punctual from now on.

A discussion? I will think on it, and wait for you to return.

_3am the next day._ _Again._

_Well, I'm glad you weren't ignoring me on purpose, then. Have you any thoughts?_

Tell me where you learned wandless magic. I wish to know of all your extra-curricular academic endeavors, if you do not mind.

_Well, during fourth year I began the theory of wandless magic, and all of my extra study began in second year. I have studied anything that interests me, so basically everything. It's my—_

Solace. I know. Please continue.

_Anyway, I started on wandless magic around fourth year, but it wasn't until the middle of fifth year that I was actually able to produce anything, and that was mostly because of…certain extra classes I was taking at the time._

_Then after my disastrous first attempt in fifth year, I began Occlumency anew. Now I am intermediate in Occlumency, and proficient in wandless magic. I even create my own spells sometimes. _

You seem quite the study. Is there a particular reason you enjoy it so much? You mentioned earlier that you had a specific house that you used for your studies. How often do you use it?

_I use the house whenever I get the chance. I like academic things because they keep my mind off of less unpleasant thoughts. They're soothing…you're…well, excuse me for my unoriginality, but it's like you're in 'the zone.' You know?_

I can relate, at least, to a point. You mentioned buying your supplies in Knockturn alley. You are aware that this makes you 'Dark' in the eyes of many?

_I don't quite care, really. I could be dark, I guess. But as long as I' m not harming anyone, its okay. That's the way I see it._

Your very presence might harm someone.

_My very presence _does_ harm people. But not because of that. _

Your angst is overwhelming

_And I just _love_ your sarcasm._

As I like yours.

_Ooo we get along famously, do we not?_

Your vocabulary has outgrown you.

_How would you _know_? Unless you know me?_

Do you consider that a challenge?

_I meant it as one._

When your challenges are no longer pathetic excuses for what you name them, perhaps I might answer you.

_That's alright; it's not the top of my list. I'm pretty sure I know who you are._

And who might you think me to be?

_I'd rather not say. It's better if you tell me, or I just stay 'Clueless' because then I can say what I will without being able to guess what you will say because if I think you'll be mean, I might not say my thoughts, you know?_

Yes, that babble was all so understandable.

_Knew you'd get it._

I thought you to have a few brain cells, but apparently sarcasm is just over your head.

…_Which head?_

That was _not_ appropriate.

_This is -my- journal._

Yes, however, since I am forced to read it, you shall keep things appropriate, lest you wish for me to ignore you, and leave you for boredom.

_No! Anything but that!_

Again, your sarcasm ceases to hold the proper amount of derision it needs.

_Yeah, yeah, whatever. I was half-ways serious. No, wait, I was serious, please don't leave._

I obviously don't have a choice in the matter.

_I can just hear you grumbling._

_Oh, I've got to go. Yesterday Petunia almost caught me with my journal, and it's almost time to wake and clean and cook. Bye._

Goodbye.

_**X.x.x.x.x Two Weeks later x.x.x.x.X**_

_I haven't written in a while. How long until school begins?_

12 more days. Almost two whole weeks more. Is there a specific cause for your absence?

_Not like you care. But yeah. Petunia…Petunia and Dudley went on a trip. A gods-cursed holiday; and left Vernon here to 'watch' me._

_Gods, I hurt _everywhere_. I doubt I could walk, either. All my cuts were reopened, both the ones I created, and the ones he carved out himself. I won't ever get to see what he had carved into my back the other night, because he tore it up anew, and now my back is just a mess of diagonal lines. _

_I think he might have broken my arm; he tied my arms behind my back, like usual (unless he wants something with my hands) and he…pressed down on my arms in just the right way that there was immense pain in both, and I heard a crack from my left. It's fair useless now. I can't find my glasses, so everything blurry. Blurry, and red, and bloody. _

_I can barely hold this quill, I am not too steady._

_I've cleaned myself up some. He allowed me to use the bathroom, and I waddled up the stairs to get a good look at myself in the body mirror. I do not look too appealing, that's for sure. I took a shower, and managed to wash most of the dried blood off of me, and clean the reachable wounds with peroxide._

_I healed my arm by myself, after relishing in the pain, and now the only problem is that Dudders and Petunia won't be back until I start school. So I've two more weeks of this. _

_I'm healing my wounds slowly. Not as slowly as the normal bodily process, and though while I've sped that up quite a bit, I have only healed them as far as the 'scab' stage, and I don't wish to go further. Perhaps I am a masochist, but I cannot bear the thought of the apathy yet again. _

_I'm doing all this healing wandlessly, for my wand, as well as all my other belongings, is trapped in the garage or attic. One of those. I just hope that everything is okay. I managed to let Hedwig go, and told her that everything was fine and that she need not worry, I was just freeing her for the summer, and that she should meet me at Hogwarts the first day back. She seemed to accept this, and took off. I hope she didn't try and come back. _

_I've nothing left to say. I feel almost as though there is nothing left to feel, and that if this pain I hold so close to my shredded body vanishes, I will be left empty. So empty._

_I hope you hate me. Maybe if you do, I could be prompted to hate you back. Probably not though. It all feels so…desolate. Like everything's gone. Oh well. I can't remember a time in my life that I wasn't empty. Now it just seems like it will last. _

I've naught to say to comfort you.

_I didn't expect you to. Who would? This is beyond anything…anyone. I am asking for this…begging for this. Each night, when he has me with my face pressed into that grimy, dirty pillow, I hear my voice begging, asking for something, anything that will bring me more pain. _

_As if pain is all I am capable of feeling, anymore. I could not imagine anyone more messed up. You must be disgusted with me. I find my own self revolting, so how can you not? And yet, I continue writing. _

_To top it all, I still dream._

_Oh yes, I still dream of my house on Meserbrooke road, I still dream of Hogwarts, of my last year there, of Hermione and my other, shallower friends. I still dream of my teacher friends. _

_But…knowing that you're listening; it helps, somehow. Even if you hate me, even if you are so revolted that you thrust the journal on your end away in disgust, or look at it with malice, as if it had offended you. Even then, it helps._

I'm not all too sure that's a good thing. But I will remain here as long as needed.

_Thank you. _

_I need to go. I hear him coming down the stairs._

_**X.x.x.x.x 11 days later x.x.x.x.X**_

_Here we are. School is almost upon us. I am greatly relieved. And part of me hates me for it. Gods, am I screwed up._

_Anyway, I did not talk for another eleven days because he took me to his and Petunias room, and kept me there. My journal was here, in the cupboard. He made me cut myself, with him watching. Then when those cuts healed, he reopened them. Ninety-three of them now. _

_He had me sleep at the base of his bed, curled up like a dog. A dog at his feet. I doubt there is anything sexual or painful that I have not undergone. From one kink to another, he just doesn't stop. Petunia and Dudders will be back tomorrow, so he's left me to my cupboard again, after I cleaned the room we had occupied, though._

_Gods I feel like I'm capable of blocking it all out; and that comforts me as it terrifies me. Half of me doesn't want me to forget this; forget how sick I am, how dirty, how used I've become. _

_The other half wants to forget, and be comforted in the blank memories that would follow. I feel as though, without the use of magic, I could just erase it…block it off completely. But I will not. I'll remember why I am, who I am, and what I am. Like I could forget, with my many scars. _

I wish to explain why I have not come to take you away from there, or why others have not. Dumbledore is a secret keeper for your homes location, and I do not know where you are.

Also, this journal has a type of powerful spell on it that, when activated (it is activated by the both of us writing in it) it makes it impossible for the two participants to speak of what is written in the journal by the other person.

It enacts its own secret-keeping, so that I may not share yours, nor you mine, had I shared any with you.

_Careful, you almost sound like you care._

Care? Hardly. I wish only that the mental stability of the savior of the wizarding world does not go to pieces before he has the chance to kill the Dark Lord.

_I'm glad you can see me so well, for that's my only use._

Indeed.

_I've got to go. Perhaps I'll see you at school. Goodbye._

Goodbye.


	3. Part Three

_Part Three_

_Are you there? It's been two months into the school year already. I've not heard a word from you. If you continue this silence, I will assume you no longer take interest, and go back to thinking that my very private thoughts are not spied upon._

_And now it has been another week, and no answer. Then I will use this as if there is no other being reading it._

_Don't be surprised if you turn these pages months later, only to find my innermost thoughts, and darkest fantasies._

_Perhaps you think I'm kidding? _

_If you were here, you'd hear my laugh._

_I'm not. _

* * *

_**X.x.x.x.x A Month Later x.x.x.x.X**_

_Merlin, he's incredible. Why does the mere thought of him make me hard? And his voice! I could literally drown in it. Gods…His voice is so rich…even when he's insulting my intelligence, eve when he is degrading me in front of the entire class, I can't do anything but concentrate on the sound of his voice. I try and look pissed at him, but really I'm just thinking of all the things I want him to do to me._

_Yes, I know I'm fucked up; gay, perverted, used, and dirty. But frankly I could care less when I'm sitting in his class, listening to his voice, watching his figure move about so stealthily, gracefully. Watching him, memorizing his every aspect, as though he might disappear any second. _

_He's dark; he seems to be, anyway. He's got those black robes, black hair, and most importantly, those black eyes. Gods, those eyes. Every time he glares at me, every time I find myself under his intense gaze, I vow, I nearly lose it then and there._

_A Dark Wizard, they say. They don't trust him. He's dangerous, that's for sure. He could kill m e instantly, if he wanted. A spy for The Order? _

_Perhaps. _

_A Death Eater? _

_I've no idea why I can't get my mind off him; I just can't. I knew I liked him since fifth year, but it's been just recently that I could barely control myself in his classroom. It's been just recently that I've jacked off to imagined happenings, such as "detentions" and other impossibles. Just recently that I've lost most of my hard-earned control. _

_Gods; control._

_What would he do, if he lost that perfectly, well-practiced control of his? He's so very controlled, all the time. All the time that blank mask of indifference is upon his face. All the time he is either sneering or glaring or hating. What would he do if that control were to vanish, slip away? Would he lash out violently at a person, would he—as everyone knows he hates me—kill me?_

_If he were to kill me, I would want it to be the slow and painful death. _

_Fuck._

_The image of me with him…somewhere in the dungeons…him torturing me…it's too much. Perhaps I should not write this in his class. He might notice, after all. And if he did? Would he take if from me? Read it? Then what would he do?_

_That's it. I'm putting this book away, and I'm excusing myself to the bathroom before I make more of a mess than Neville and his cauldron. _

_I happened across him in the halls tonight. I love it when he uses that voice of his, and I love it more when it's directed at me. I wonder what lengths I would go to, to have that voice directed at me all the time. To have his eyes follow me, glaring hatred or malice, dark thoughts flickering through them too fast for me to read. _

_I'm glad no one is around; they might attempt to read my journal._

_I think I want a detention. It's most definitely not healthy, that's for sure. If I was to get a detention, what would I do? Would I lose it entirely, getting him half out of his clothes before kneeling before him? _

_Would I say anything? It would not be healthy; to have the object of my desires so near for so long, with no one else to witness whatever may happen. _

_I know its delirious ramblings, to be sure. He would never want me. Can't blame him, who would? But I can imagine, I can dream. And I can get myself that detention. _

_I have been very careful in my dealings with him. I have not provoked a detention, and I think he's quite annoyed with me for it. So I will, I will get my detention. It will drive me crazy, but I think it would be far worse to not get a detention, to not be so near to him. _

_Merlin, what would I do if I was not in Hogwarts? If I was away from him? Would I descend into the insanity I attempted to stave off this summer holiday, or am I already insane? _

_I can't even imagine next year, when I'm no longer here. When I'm in my home on Meserbrooke. The place still has its hold on me, but I cannot imagine being there without being near him. _

_So, now for that detention._

_**Next day**_

_I've had my detention. And I was right. High sexual tension on my part, blatant passiveness on his part, but it was worth it. I cleaned cauldrons, as he has had me do countless times before. Cleaning comes easily to me, so I was welcome to clean and stare at him as I did so, as he graded papers. _

_There was a minimum of words, and nothing had changed since before the summer holidays. _

_But such close proximity to him made my blood rush all the hotter, filled me with sparks and other things that rival the intensity of the pain I feel every time that blade slices my skin._

_I want another detention._

_Fuck this is so not healthy. _

_Is it wrong that his very presence makes me hard?_

_Is it wrong that my thoughts, more often than not, include him bending me over his beautiful ebony desk, and fucking the hell out of me?_

_Is it wrong that all other sexual situations imagined that _do not include him_ disgust me?_

_Is it wrong that I am so very asexual and apathetic with every romance that seems to head my way, besides when I think of him?_

_Is it wrong that he is the only one that can make my blood boil, whether in anger or lust or what?_

_Is it wrong that I hate myself every day, every second, for what I allowed—what I wanted—to happen with my uncle, my cousin? And that everything about me repulses me to no end, but when I think of him, I am no longer loathing, I'm no longer disgusted?_

_If it is, I don't bloody well care. _

_End One: Journal One_

* * *

"Potter," Snape said, raising his brows as Harry added powdered mandrake root to the potion.

"Yes, professor?"

"Are you blind as well as incompetent? Can you not read the directions? What do the instructions say, Potter," Harry squinted, then shrugged helplessly.

"I'm sorry professor, I've lost my glasses. I haven't actually been reading off the board all year, but more asking Hermione what it says because I've er…misplaced my glasses. But she is absent, and I've had to get along without her today. Not that she helps me—she just tells me what the board says."

"And why, Potter, have you not gotten replacements?"

"I…I guess I just haven't had the time, professor. I apologize. Could you please tell me what the board says?"

"Neville, please read the instructions written in the board for Mister Potter, and tell him what he has done wrong." Snape ordered, sneering. As Neville read the instructions, Harry wince. Powdered mandrake root was not in the instructions at all.

"I see sir. Could I perhaps make up this potion, after supper, or before classes begin tomorrow? I would not like to miss it."

"Detention tonight, Potter. You may remake the potion if you can clean all of the cauldrons first, and before the two hour limit." Harry nodded, his cheeks flushed.

He began to pack his ingredients and clean his own cauldron, for the bell signaling lunch was about to ring. The class said nothing, as Harry was more the loner now than ever, these days. Even the Slytherins had ceased picking on him, for they could no longer draw a reaction from him.

He knocked softly on the door, then harder. Finally a voice called out 'Enter', and Harry proceeded through the door.

He cleaned the cauldrons in record time, not allowing himself to look at the man as he had the other, previous detentions. Immediately after, he began on his potion, with a copy of the instructions written on a parchment beside his cauldron. When he completed it, also in record time, he cleaned his caldron, and then left the bottled sample with his name on it on Snape's desk.

When he made to move away from the desk—and the man grading papers—Snape looked up.

"Potter." His voice was flat, and he lay his quill down in the stack of ungraded parchments.

"Yes, sir?" Harry asked. No nerves did he seem to possess. The Potions Master, Dark Wizard Extraordinaire, was staring at him as intensely as he ever had before, and Harry did not even twitch. Though his cheeks did redden slightly as he held the mans gaze.

The man in question tapped a black, leather-bound book that lay on the edge of his desk, one that was identical to the journal Harry held hidden in his trunk in his dorm. The boy's eyes widened slightly, but that was his only reaction.

"Are you aware as to what this is, Mister Potter?"

"I believe I have a clue," was his response.

"And you are aware that I have continued to read it, despite my lack of response?"

"I assume so, sir."

"And what have you to say for yourself?" Snape's face was unreadable, as always, but his eyes were dark. Blacker than black and still darker. Harry tried to remember back, to see if he had ever witnessed them that way before. He was pretty sure he hadn't.

"For myself, sir? You of all people should know; I've never any excuse for myself. I don't care enough about myself to have anything to say for myself." Harry quirked a smile, one that didn't shrivel and die under Snape's intensive glare.

"And what if I'm a faithful servant of the Dark Lord, Potter? Every spell can be broken somehow. What if I went to the Dark Lord with this journal, and we found a way to break the secret-keeper spell on it, what then? How would you react to being betrayed such, how do you think The Dark Lord would react to your innermost thoughts? Have you no sense?"

"I could truly care less, sir. If you are loyal to the Dark Lord, then that is what you are. I don't think my thoughts would change, sir. As for his reactions to my innermost thoughts…well, he'd be pleased, then, wouldn't he? To know he could so easily get to me, through you."

"You aren't suggesting that you would willingly go to the one who plots your demise solely because of this…infatuation you have with me." Snape's voice held a deadly tone to it, and Harry shrugged.

"That is exactly what I'm saying sir. If you are a loyal servant to your master, you should be pleased. And if you aren't, then things are as they were, are they not? I will understand if you would have me drop from your class, I can't imagine how…revolting it must be, to have me so near everyday, and know the line my thoughts are taking." The professor shook his head.

"Potter, your angst never ceases to amaze me. Though, I suppose you have just cause. The year is almost out; you will be living in the house on Meserbrooke road, correct?" Harry nodded mutely.

"Perhaps then, I will come and visit. You are excused Potter. Don't let me catch you wandering the halls after curfew."

"S-sir?" Snape had finally managed to floor him. The man smirked.

"I did not suggest that said visit would be friendly, Potter."

"Y-yes…well…" Harry stuttered, then grabbed his bag and walked quickly from the room, calling 'goodnight, professor' over his shoulder.

* * *

Start Two: Journal Two

_Damn! Does he even know what he said!? I assume he did, sadistic bastard._

"_I did not suggest that said visit would be friendly, Potter."_

_I wonder if he was perusing my thoughts, seeing the flashes of images that ran through my head at that precise moment. _

_Could he have not said something so provocative? I am highly aware as to how unfriendly he is, damnit, and I was not expecting tea and lemon drops when he said he would visit. _

_Actually, when he said he'd visit, I was attempting to recall falling asleep, so I could blame it on being a dream and reassure myself of my stabilized insanity._

_And when he said it would not be friendly, well! Of course the first thing I imagined was rough, violent sex. I blame him, it's his entire fault. And if he reads this, that's his fault too. You hear?_

_Anyway, of course all I could do was rush out the room before he called me back to explain my sudden nerves, and run to my dorm before the others could ask about my detention, on the off chance they would. _

_And of course I felt it necessary to jack off with the images of his visit to the house on Meserbrooke still fresh in my mind. _

_How does he do this to me?_

_I've long given up attempting to find out. _

_I just hope it never stops._

_End Two: Journal Two_

* * *


	4. Part Four

_Part Four_

_**X.x.x.x.x Five Months Later, Meserbrooke Road x.x.x.x.X**_

A soft, almost unregistered knock tapped softly upon the sturdy mahogany door, introducing the presence of another living being; something the house had not seen since the boy had moved in.

Said boy was carefully measuring diced unicorn hairs into a bubbling cauldron, his eyes narrowed behind his glasses in concentration. His raven hair fell over the tips of his glasses' frames, giving an odd fringe of black at the crown of his vision.

He carefully set down his tools and stepped away from the potion, cautious not to interrupt the fragile state of the brew. He tilted his head to the left, hair gliding softly over his cheeks and neck as he did so, listening.

The knock rang again, no louder than before, as though it wanted entrance, but, at the same time, wished to not be acknowledged.

Harry glanced at the potion, then the clock. It was near bouts three am, he saw, and as he cautiously made his way to the door, he wondered who could be calling at this hour.

Severus Snape looked exactly as he had when Harry had left school, approximately a half-year ago. He was still dressed in his black robes, his hair was still long, black, and silky—though, as Harry had noticed in fifth year, not greasy—and his eyes still bode no good for whoever crossed their path.

Harry leaned against the doorframe, a small, faraway smile on his face. His jeans were stained with potion backsplash, and his rumpled, all-too-big-shirt was worn ragged by use. His thin limbs—what could be seen of them—were tan as always, though he had not been out in the sun much in the time he had spent since the end of sixth year.

His black hair was longer, though still wild. Silky strands of black strayed across his forehead, stuck to his eyelashes when he blinked, and stuck to his cheeks and his neck as he moved his head back and forth, settling it on his right shoulder as he leaned on the frame and smiled at his old potions master.

"Severus Snape, good to see you well. I assume you'd like to come in?" He asked, his voice neither mocking nor kind, just matter-of-fact and vaguely curious. The man nodded slowly, though no emotion showed on his blank mask.

"Yes, that would certainly be agreeable." Harry moved aside and allowed the older man to walk into his home, a feat many others would deem absurd and insane. The two in question, however, both knew Harry to be insane in his own right, and made nothing of it.

The night was a warm, summers night, and thus all the windows of the house were opened to tempt a friendly breeze. The air smelled of grass, and pine trees, as the house was plotted at the end of a lane that stretched into the surrounding forest.

A small sigh could be imagined from the man, who, at Harry's nod to his inquisitive glance, sat on the worn brown couch. One could assume that Snape had inhaled deeply the comforting scents of a post-storm wilderness, and exhaled surreptitiously, so as not to show his contentment, and one, being Harry, did just that.

Harry ambled into the kitchen, which was lit by a dim electric bulb, which, rather than making the place dull and shabby-looking, merely added to the effects of a cozy home.

When he returned, he was carrying a tray on which two cups and saucers sat, a teapot between them, with honey and sugar to each side. He set it down on the coffee table, and poured tea for the both of them. He looked at Snape questioningly, who shook his head. Harry handed the sugar-less, honey-less tea to the Professor, then poured his own.

When they had set a while, their thoughts consumed by the silence of the nature all around the cabin, Harry broached a conversation.

"So, what brings you to my home at so early an hour?" Snape set his empty teacup down, shaking his head as Harry moved to pour him more, and leaned back into the comfort of the old couch.

"I said I would visit," he said at last. Crickets could be heard outside of the windows, and they seemed to chew at the silence with their noise, as an ant would chew at a morsel of food dropped on a sidewalk. Harry laughed quietly, and the man looked at him inquiringly.

"Well, this has been quite friendly so far, you know, for you. I quite like it." Harry's voice wasn't mocking, or even teasing, and his smile was soft.

"Of course _you_ would Potter, you find my company, no matter what form it's in, pleasing. Gods only know why." Harry's smiled turned into a Slytherin-like smirk.

"Yes, I suppose you have a point there." They sat, quite comfortable, in silence for a while, until Harry stood. He motioned hurriedly for Snape—who had already risen—to remain seated as he walked slowly across the room to an open door.

"Excuse me; I've got to finish off a potion. It will take but a moment." Now, under normal circumstances, the man would most likely have followed Harry, to get a look at the potion, criticize, assist, take over, or, on a rare occasion, compliment.

This perhaps, was the first thing that gave Harry pause for thought; an uncharacteristic Snape. He came to the reasonable conclusion that the man was weary, and finished up his potion as quickly and efficiently as he could.

When he returned, the man was sitting exactly as he had been before, and Harry sat across from him once more.

"Are you aware that no one in the wizarding world, save Hermione Granger, knows where you are?" Snape said after a long silence.

"Yes. I told you, this place is well-guarded. After Dumbledore died…it…er…I didn't really feel the need to tell others where I lived. You know, Hermione knows, and Dumbledore…knew." He had brought up Dumbledore, and upon hearing the name, Snape's mouth gave a slight twitch.

Harry did not move, vaguely certain that Snape would not appreciate Harry's great urge to reach out and touch him, to comfort him physically with his hand upon the others.

"I don't blame you, Severus," he said quietly, daring to call his professor by his proper name. The man's lip twitched again, and this time turned into a full sneer.

"How could you not? I alone am to blame for that. But this is not why I am here. Besides your favorable company, I've message for you." At Harry's nod, the man continued.

"The journal entrusted your secrets to me, and thus I am your secret keeper, as you know. Hermione is…Hermione is reasonably safe, so, though she knows your location, it would be nigh impossible for the Dark Lord to extract said information without difficulty." Harry nodded, starting to piece the incomprehensible truth together in the back of his mind, as he refused to acknowledge what it was with the same breath."However, I am a more reasonable choice in pursuing that information, and the Dark Lord has learned that I know of your location." Harry's eyes and face betrayed nothing, though he was no longer smiling.

_Use me, holly, come on and use me…_

_Use me, holly, come on and use me…_

_We go where we know…_

_Use me, holly, come on and use me…_

_We go where we go…_

"I understand," he said quietly, eyes closing.

"Do you? This is not a warning, potter, this is happening _now_. I am to take you to the Dark Lord."

"I understand," Harry's voice was still and quiet, as though he was rigidly controlled, and yet speaking freely. He stood, eyes opening to reveal nothing within those green depths, and held out his hand. Snape looked at the offered hand for a moment, and laughed condescendingly.

"So, here you are offering yourself to the Dark Lord, like you had said you would." Harry's smile was not truly a smile; just a fake, a twist of skin and lips without true meaning, and said nothing.

"Very well, then." The older man handed him an old book, and the two felt a jerk behind their naval before a swirling darkness hit.

* * *

Neither the Death Eaters nor Voldemort ever predicted Harry. Of course, they had assumed. They had assumed a great deal; thinking that he was the frivolous, arrogant boy-who-lived that he was so often portrayed as. But they could never have thought he was so quiet.

He screamed, sure enough, when they tortured him. He screamed, he begged, and he writhed under their cruel, searching hands and grubby, black fingernails.

He cried, he wailed, he fought and he panted when they forced him onto the cold, unforgiving stone floor of Malfoy Manner and brought him to a painful, unwilling orgasm. He spoke, quietly and carefully, when pointedly addressed, and he followed orders as well as any trained pet.

But he was quiet, and blank most of the time, when they did not provoke emotion from him. Voldemort laughed, proclaiming that he had already been broken when he was brought, going into detail about every single time that Vernon had come for him as the Death Eaters looked on and laughed.

He was passed around to the favoured Death Eaters, mostly men, though an occasional woman would slip into his cell at night, on Voldemort's permission, of course.

Lucius Malfoy, escaped from Azkaban, was the most violent. He liked to make Harry scream, he enjoyed making the boy bleed, and cry. He would spend hours taunting him with words and the ever-glinting, silver knife, eventually taking what he had come for and leaving Harry bloodied and bent on the grimy floor.

Severus Snape, the times he was allowed 'play time' with the new toy, was careful. He took what he was expected to take, but he did not cause unnecessary pain, nor dragged the experience out any longer than needed.

Harry would not speak during these times, but when Snape got a glimpse of the dark emerald eyes, he saw acceptance and comprehension in them.

Soon, Harry belonged exclusively to Voldemort, and no one was allowed to touch him. He sat at his master's feet, perfect and obedient; he slept at the foot of his master's bed, like a dog. He fed from his master's hands, and spoke only when his mater addressed him specifically, otherwise staying silent.

* * *

A year had passed, and the world had been devoid of hope for a long time before that. Harry Potter rested comfortably at the feet of the Dark Lord, and every wizard in the world knew it.

That's why it came as a shock. Not just to the Death Eaters and the Dark Lord himself, but also the wizarding world in its entire, which had every reason to doubt, and none to believe.

There was only one person who was not in the least surprised, and said person is the one who helped Harry Potter to escape from the gory, bloody scene that encircled the boy after an explosion of his rage.

Evidently, the young man and the Dark Lord had been in the middle of certain sexual activities, and suddenly, Harry Potter had snapped. When Snape found him, there was nothing left of voldemort, save the unrecognizable clumps of gore and the blood splattered everywhere.

Harry's hands, stained red with the Dark Lords blood up to his elbows, shook as Snape took him up and apparated with him outside of the boy's own home on Meserbrooke Road.

* * *

He managed to get the boy inside the strong wards before anyone came to investigate the sound of his arrival, and had just managed to get him clean with an intense cleansing spell when the full weight of what had happened fell upon him. The Dark Lord was dead. Gone.

He looked over at the boy, who lay exhausted on the couch, and smirked. He had done it, as Snape had thought he might. He watched Harry sleep for a moment, before levitating him to the boys own room and lying him comfortably within the folds of his own bed.

He considered pajamas, but decided against them. The boy was clean, and he was perfectly fine in the warm bed, naked as he was.

The Dark Lord was dead, and the Death Eaters were either on the run, or captured already. A fine night it had turned out to be, a year since he had come to call upon Harry Potter at approximately three am a warm summer's night.

* * *

He stood in the doorway, having just rushed in when the sound of movement reached his ears from where he sat in the living room. He stared on as Harry arched up from the bed, his eyes shut tightly, writhing under the heavy covers.

At first glance he thought the boy was having some form of seizure, but after a second glance, he saw that the look he had taken as pain on Harry's face was in fact immense pleasure. He stood in the doorway, a bit dumbstruck, as he watched the young man jack off, too shocked to realize that this was perhaps something he should not be witnessing.

Severus Snape, however, did not know the grand company of shock, for a few seconds later, he was floored.

"Gods…Severus…" the breathy whisper was almost inaudible, but since the man was the only other person in an otherwise quiet house, he heard it easily enough.

Whatever he had expected to find when he rushed into the room—hell, whatever he had expected Harry to act like after he returned from the Dark Lord—it was _not_ this.

He turned quickly from the room and left before Harry—who eyes had been closed the entire time—got the chance to look around and see that he had witnessed one of the boy's more intimate moments.

He made his way quickly to the living room and sat on the couch, working the scene through in his mind as if it might explain Harry's actions. He refused to admit—even to himself—how utterly hot the entire scene had been, and forced himself to concentrate on the facts.

Harry had been masturbating, even though the horror the boy had undergone must have caused him serious mental damage.

It was a wonder he wasn't asexual, actually, and that he didn't hate himself for what he did, or the way he thought.

Who knew? Perhaps he did hate himself. It obviously did not stop him.

More disturbing, however, was the person he was most obviously thinking about; he himself; Severus Snape.

While he knew that the boy had been infatuated with him for some time, he had thought that, after betraying him, and _using_ him in the most obscene matter, Harry would loathe him, or at least, not still…_like_ him.

With a sigh, he rose to make his way to the bedroom once again, this time cautiously knocking on the door he had closed before entering.

Harry was laying on the bed, obviously faking sleep, his wand not three inches from his hand. He moved to grab the magical outlet, placing it out of Harry's reach and sitting down in the chair beside the bed.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, Harry stirred, 'waking up', though Snape knew him to be faking.

"Hello," Harry said quietly, his voice hoarse from repeated screaming from the night before, where he would frequently wake from nightmares. Snape immediately conjured a glass of water, and held it out to the boy.

Harry's hands came from beneath the covers—still tainted a dull red from the blood that had coated them only yesterday—to grasp the glass.

"Thanks," he smiled at Snape, and the man's scowl only deepened. After downing the entire glass, then another, and another, he stared at Snape for a while.

"I suppose you heard me?" He was mildly surprised that Harry would be so forward about it, but he gave a curt nod, letting none of his emotions show, as had become a habit he naturally kept. Harry stared at him for a while, eyes darting to-and-fro as they searched his former professor's face.

"I never stopped, you know. Loving you. I never stopped." Harry said quietly, looking down. Snape sneered his trademark sneer.

"Oh please, Potter, spare me. I've had enough of your ridiculous _emotions_ to last me a lifetime." Instead of provoking anger, a he had intended, Harry only smiled sadly and nodded, considering his former professor in a sad, resigned way.

"Yes, I suppose you have," He said in a soft tone, and Snape just glared.

"What interests me, Potter, is how you could endure so much physical and mental abuse without any apparent side effects. You've been raped quite a few times, by a variety of people—including me, I remind you—and yet you set about jacking off the first day you are released from captivity." Harry was looking at Snape seriously, which, of course, installed a sense of dread within the potions master.

"It was _not_ rape, Severus." He said firmly, holding the mans gaze with his own.

"Whatever you wish to call it, Potter, the fact remains that I forced non-consensual sex upon you, and—"

"Who ever said it was non-consensual!? I understood that you had to do it, and I accepted that. I mean, sure, it wasn't exactly what I imagined our first time together to be, but it is what it is, and I'm okay with that!" Snape was glaring again.

"We will not be debating this any further, Potter! Back to the subject at hand!" Harry glared his own, feeble glare, which withered under the intensity of Snape's, and shook his head.

"Fine. Whatever. Anyway, I think you were asking me where my angst went? It didn't go anywhere. I still hate myself for what I am, but when I…when I think about you, in that way, it doesn't bother me, and I hate myself because of that, too, because I'm so…disgusting. And forcing you to deal with my feelings, and I can't imagine how I make you feel for that, so I hate myself more for causing you grief of any kind, but when it comes down to it, I can't help it." Harry was picking at the strands of his blanket, not looking at the man beside his bed.

"Circles within circles." Snape drawled, and Harry looked up, startled.

"You had me pegged, Potter. That _is_ something I might say." Harry smiled, looking down again.

"At any rate, what will you do, now? The great Harry Potter; he-who-lived-to-kill-the-Dark-Lord. Do you have any plans?"

"I…uhm…well, I didn't plan this far ahead, see. I suppose I'll return to what I was doing before. Potions, studying. I still feel like there's so much more to learn. And I've been making up my own spells, as well. I guess I'll go back to my solace…both of them." Snape looked sharply at Harry, who shrugged.

"I'm not saying you have to read any of it; you asked me what I was going to do."

"Very true. As for me…" Snape's thoughts seemed to wander, though, with his features, it was hard to tell what he was thinking, or if he was thinking.

"You could…you could stay here, with me…?" Harry half asked, half said hesitantly. Snape's eyes focused on Harry, and the boy rushed on.

"Not like, not like that. I mean, just like...uhm…roommates? Sort of? You could use my lab, and help me with my studies and things…" Snape shook his head slowly.

"No, I think I will be forced to recline, Potter, though it is tempting. As for me, I'll leave as soon as you can cook on your own."

"But where will you go?" Harry asked sadly.

"Nowhere that concerns you, Potter. Now go to sleep." Snape stood and strode from the room, leaving Harry to 'hrumpf' at his blankets and roll onto his side.


	5. Part Five

_**Part Five**_

* * *

**__**

_**Start: Journal Three**_

* * *

****

_He's gone, that bastard, he __left__. I mean, I knew he would, why stay? More so, why stay with _me_? But still. At least the apathy is gone._

_In its place has come, what I've decided to call, longing. And pain. Great, immeasurable, pain. Worse than any physical torture I have endured. Worse than any emotional or mental strain I've withstood. And gods, does it _hurt_. I know why he left, I mean, it's obvious. I would have left, were I in his shoes. Nonetheless, I still find myself asking '_why why, why, why, why!?'_ when I sit up at night. _

_Insomnia? You bet. I've had that going on since the end of sixth year. I want to die. Well, no, I don't. I enjoy life. I want the part of me, the whole of me, which burns and aches and chafes and screams and howls, to be dead. _

_If I could cut from my heart the part of me that's in love with him, I would. The problem is; I'd have to cut my whole heart from out my body. _

_I've been brewing and spell-making and studying like crazy, but there's always a part of my mind constantly going over every single bit of conversation that he and I have ever played a part in. _

_I am insane. I was insane, I knew that. Hell, he knew that. We all know that Harry-fucking-Potter is insane. But now I think my senses have unraveled as well as my mind. I _smelled_ him this morning!_

_I was making my tea when all the sudden it hit my like a strong gust of wind, and I was caught up in a wave of delectable smell, intoxicating to a point where my hunger went over the edge._

_Look at me! What; is he _food_ now? What I meant, of course, was a completely different kind of hunger. _

_And last week I thought I caught a glimpse of his robe wiping around the corner, and a month ago I thought I heard his sardonic voice. _

_That voice, if I ever hear it again, will be enough to undo me, I swear. I doubt that, if he ever came around, and he spoke one syllable, I would not be able to control myself._

_

* * *

_

_Okay, it's been a year. Maybe two. I don't know. But I still haven't heard or read a word from him. It's driving me insane…well, more so than I was, anyway. I don't know; maybe he's dead, or he's found some other…lover…or something of that nature. Or maybe they captured him, and he's in Azkaban._

_I've had very little news from the outside world these past years (?) so you could see why I'm unsure. Hermione visits often, but I've sort of come to doubt if she'd tell me if he had died, or become imprisioned. _

_She probably fears for my health, and thus keeps such disturbing and mentally shattering news from me at all costs. Or something. At least, if said thing had happened, she would. Maybe. I'm not sure._

_Anyway, I've discovered two new potions, enhanced the dreamless sleep draught (to a point where it will even block out MY nightmares. Shocking, eh?) and created a vast amount of new spells. I guess being cooped up for so long has given me major time to do all that._

_Now, don't get me wrong. I still go out into the world. Just…not among people. I walk out, deep and far into the woods that back my home, at night, during the day; whenever._

_I've explored every inch of the woods within a hundred miles of my home, and still there's more, so I keep going. I've kept up my tan—which I've had ever since I can remember, despite lack of sunlight—by doing this, though maybe it would stay even if I never set foot outside again. Who knows? _

_But the sunlight and nature does me good; I actually enjoy myself out there, free as any other animal that inhabits the area._

_A walk such as the ones I've described sounds appealing, at the moment. I believe I will go for one now._

_

* * *

_

_End: Journal Three_

_

* * *

_

A subtle noise can be all that there is of a hint, a hint of what is to be, or what is not to be. A hint of demise, a hint of rebirth, and a subtle noise can change someone's world.

Harry heard a subtle noise as he retired from his potions at the magic ticking hour of 3am, not yet weary, but too disoriented to work with potions at the moment. Said subtle noise crept up on his consciousness, undetected. At first he did not hear it. Then his mind slowly began to process the fact that the noise was not, in all reality, a common one.

He turned to get a good look behind him—for that was indeed where the noise was coming from—and just as he did so, the noise made itself known, began its course of change.

A strong forced crashed into him, pressing him t the wall. At first he assumed this was another nightmare, but when there wasn't immediate pain, he was unsure, and thus thought it to be an attack. He grappled for his wand, but the quick hands that had searched him immediately upon contact had already drawn it from him.

Harry was pretty much convinced of an attack right now, but another notion continued to naggle at his mind, unsure, hopeful, even.

He was unused to hope, and thus she shoved the thought away without giving time to recognize what it stood for, completely unaware as to what it meant, what the thought was. For a moment he felt a tinge of regret, knowing that in thrusting aside hope, he made whatever it promised or wished for that much more impossible.

Harry was right; it was an attack. But not one that he was used to undergoing. Sure, some of the girls at Hogwarts had ambushed him in the halls in this manner, thinking he would _like_ the idea of what they had in mind.

But this; this was quite different. This was stronger, more…heated, was his only description word.

After he realized that this was an attack on him, sexually, the first thing he noticed that his attacker was male. The next thing he noticed was that this, everything about this was familiar and well received, his body reacting to the touch of the other man, like it hadn't done for so, so long.

Harry knew now, or at least, he knew somewhere. The part of his mind that insisted it was in charge did not believe it for a second, but the rest of him knew. His body, his mind, his soul, if he still had one.

Harry shushed the quiet voice in his mind that resisted the mans identity, quelled the intensity of the protest until it was a whisper, then an echo, and then finally gone.

He reacted to the mans touch as he had years ago, that one night, in that one dark, desolate place. His vocal chords worked, his body screamed and ached in intervals, and his mind reeled in all of the pleasure from this one man, his presence, his scent, his touch.

* * *

He woke up amongst rumpled bed sheets, tangled in then, actually, to find that Snape was no longer beside him. He rotated his eyes up and around, ignoring the white splotch—which was all his right eye could see—as the pillow. Finally he caught sight of him standing over the bed on the left side, and he rolled himself over to greet the man with a smile.

"Good morning," he said in a soft, contented voice.

"Good morning," Snape said calmly. The look on his face was not a look, but a mask, once again, and Harry felt himself sink, as if heavily weighted.

"Oh," he said; his words just a breath of air with barely recognizable words mixed in. He sounded resigned, like the sigh of a person who lost a bet, or an intense game of chess. Snape smiled at him, not a full-on-real smile, and not a smirk. The smile was eerie, as if it was mixed with derision and something else. Caring, maybe, compassion.

"Avada Kedavra!" the man said, his voice strong and unwavering, but oddly quiet.

Harry smiled his brilliant smile once more, and then he was gone.

* * *

A/N: So yeah, I wasn't sure how to make this into a happy ending that was realistic, so I just killed 'em… sorry about that, you must be mad at me. When I got the inspiration to kill Harry, it was perfect, because I was on the phone with my wife, Kate, at the time. I think I was sorta just babbling, telling her I was unsure about where to go with this, and she's nodding and offering suggestions as we tried to come up with something.

Then I'm like 'oh, I know!'

And she gets all excited 'what? What is it?"

'He kills him! Snape kills Harry!'

And she's silent for a moment, and then she squees and goes 'omg perfect!' only she actually said the words, not the omg, but the full words, and I'm just lazy. Erm…so this is the author note I gave to myself to remind me what to do, and I thought it quite funny, so here it is…:

_Authoress note to self: Snape comes to Harry they do the xxx (don't forget the explosion!) then the old Avada Kedavra, flash of green, Harry goes xx , all dead and such, and muahahahaha! Angsty ending to and angsty story in an angsty world! _

_The angst was, of course, probably…I don't know…channeled? Channeled into this story because of all the angst in real life. Northern Uganda, Darfur, Virginia Tech, angst angst angst! I freaking feed off of it. Well, actually, the real-life stuff made me all depressed so I channeled all that angst into this, and now I'm happy again! Yay!_

_Kozi_


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